


First Impressions (Last the Longest)

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Fire and Gunpowder [1]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Beginnings of Romance, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, First Meetings/First Impressions, Gen, Origin Story, crazy love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 20:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4276305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't do nice guys, Nimbus," she says, "and nice guys finish last around here."</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Impressions (Last the Longest)

**Author's Note:**

> First Installment of the "Fire and Gunpowder" series, featuring Kyle and Anastazia's first meeting and the (rocky) foundations of their relationship. Please enjoy!

There were some jobs you applied for one way, and then there were other jobs you applied for a little differently.

For example, in certain job circuits that may or may not involve illegal activities, one didn’t just put out a resume and fill an application and then wait for a phone call; that’s not how it worked, ever. But if you happen to meet the people who know the right people, and a good word or two is put in, at some point you might get lucky enough to catch their eye. That’s how the most crime families in the city work, anyway, but Araz Darbinyan has a reputation of always wanting to be one step ahead of his enemies, and he is not a patient man. He’s known for casting out the lines and waiting to see who would bite, and then casting them out again and again and again, until something bites. And then, the real test begins.

“I’ll be clear and to the point, Mr. Nimbus,” Araz states, gaze shrewd and eyes narrow, seated in a handsome chair with a glass of brandy in hand, “you are young. And those who are young either have great potential, or they are clumsy and worthless. I have also found those who are young tend to humble themselves in order to do whatever it takes, or they are arrogant and overly ambitious, thinking they belong on top when they should be at the bottom. Which one are you?”

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do, Mr. Darbinyan.” He answers, because there isn’t really another answer to give. It’s very apparent which type the crime boss prefers to have as his employee, and the first rule of presentation is to make yourself desirable to the other party. Only an idiot would claim to be the opposite of what the boss wants.

“I like hearing that.” Araz nods, looking pleased enough, sips his brandy, and continues, “As it so happens, I have need of something at the moment. A personal bodyguard, for my daughter.”

Alright, that’s a little disappointing; his mind immediately conjures visions of a spoiled little toddler, dressed in frilly little dresses with bows in her hair, demanding to have one of every toy, of every kind, in every color, and so on, who will pout and throw tantrums when she isn’t given what she wants and when she wants it. He’s not much for kids—not when he was one, and definitely not now—but if he can bite the bullet and suffer through this for a time, maybe he’ll at least earn favor and move up the ranks.

“My daughter has had many appointed guards, Mr. Nimbus.” Araz carries on, throwing a dark glare at the two others in the corners; both look down, shame-faced and shifting uncomfortably, “Year after year, none of them have proven capable of performing their duties. Some are still with us, others are not. Perhaps you will prevail a little longer than the rest.”

The question is on the tip of his tongue, the question of who exactly this daughter is, that she’s been able to toss guard after guard out on their heads, and even the question of how old she is, because he finds it hard to believe a child would be able to wreck this kind of havoc _year after year_ , when the front doors are opened, closed, and then he can hear the click of heels along the tile floor. 

And then, without warning, Araz stands up, glass still in hand, and, at a level normally reserved for movie theater surround sound, issues a summons.

“ _Anastazia!_ ”

Silence follows, then _click, click, click_ , moving farther away, and then again, voice at the same level and with a locked jaw, “ _ **Anastazia!**_ ”

 _Click, click, click, click, click, click_ , and the door is kicked open with impressive force. Wood chips go flying across the floor, and now the multiple patch jobs on the door he’d noticed earlier make perfect sense. The other two men in the room flinch at the same time, and quickly avert their eyes to the floor, the wall, and the ceiling, all in one fluid rolling motion. _Click, click, click, click._ He looks from the awkwardly-shifting suits in the corner, to the elder man fuming over his brandy glass and glowering at the doorway, and finally to the door itself. And then he bites down on his tongue before his jaw makes a rapid descent to the floor.

Oh. _Oh, wow._

The young woman standing in the doorway is fresh from the club scene, and she wears the look a little too well, for the sake of any red-blooded man still upright and breathing. Her red dress shows too much skin, the red heels are too high to be legal; she has chocolate-brown eyes shadowed with makeup and honey-comb curls tussled and loose around her face and shoulders, and lips painted red and currently pursed tight to accompany an irate glower. 

“ _What_?” she replies, voice sharp and cold and one would think she is addressing a bothersome stranger rather than her father. She’s leaning carelessly against the wooden frame, arms across her chest and eyebrow raised insolently.

“Where have you been?” Araz demands, after taking a large drink from his glass, though the question seems absurdly rhetorical and even a little unnecessary. Apparently, she shares the sentiment.

“Church,” she answers, smirking coolly and cocking her hip pointedly, which in turn makes her skirt hike up a little more, and he shouldn’t have noticed that, “Can’t you tell?”

Araz glares at her, even as he takes another drink and empties the glass, drops it on the table, and sets both hands firmly on his hips. After another pause, the silence feeling very awkward at the moment, he huffs out a sharp breath and nods to the younger man seated across the way. “This is Kyle Nimbus.” He says, rather tightly. “As of tomorrow, he will be taking over duties as your new bodyguard.”

Her eyebrows lift a little higher. “Is this your way of firing him before he even gets started?”

“It is my way of demonstrating to _my child_ ,” he answers through a locked jaw; it’s rather impressive, actually, to see how easily she can get under her father’s skin, and stay there, “that I will not give up just because you pull your little stunts time and time again. There is someone out there who can tame you, and I am confident Mr. Nimbus will rise to the challenge. Won’t you?”

There’s no better way to put someone on the spot than drop attention right back on them, and if one isn’t following the conversation, it can be a very awkward moment. Fortunately, he prides himself on following conversations, even when he’s not a part of them. The way people talk and what they say and the way they act says so much about them. And when you know things about people, you can go places in this world.

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do, Mr. Darbinyan.” He answers, keeping eye contact steady and voice calm. “And I’ll do it to the very best of my ability.”

Once again, the patriarch looks pleased, the irritation of his daughter’s presentation seeming to fade away, at least for now. It’s interesting, how little it takes to please him, but it could easily be short-lived and it’s too early for him to know just what appeases and ticks Araz. And so, when he is given a silent dismissal, shortly after the girl turns on her heel and strolls out of the study, he takes the hint and leaves.

He’s halfway down the hallway, towards the door, when a sharp little whistle rings from the stairs. The girl—although, to be fair, he shouldn’t think of her as a girl; she’s probably no more than a few years his junior—is standing the stairs, hip propped against the rail and hands splayed along the wood as she tilts her head at him. It takes a minute for him to realize that’s an unspoken _Come here_.

“So,” she says, once he’s joined her on the stairs, “since Daddy isn’t much for proper introductions, allow me.” Her hand reaches out for his. “Anastazia Darbinyan.”

“Kyle Nimbus.” He says; she already knows his name, yes, but if they’re going to do a proper introduction then far be it for him to forget his manners. The customary handshake doesn’t last too long, but long enough for him to note she has one heck of a grip.

Her lips quirk up as they release each other and she drops her hand back to the rail. “So, you’re the new addition to the family.” She murmurs, running her eyes over him. “Daddy already seems to like you. Or maybe not, seeing what job he gave you.”

“Well, I’m always up for a challenge.” He returns, shrugging idly. It’s not explicitly obvious, not in her gaze or her tone or her expression, but he has the distinct impression that he’s being analyzed, examined, and sized-up.

Her smile is more of a smirk, and a thinly amused one at that. “You strike me as a nice guy, Mr. Nimbus.” Anastazia says quietly. “And if you plan to last at this job for more than five minutes, you’ll need to fix that.”

He isn’t given a chance to respond, not before she pushes herself off the rail, rests both hands on her hips, and fixes him with a look that, yes, confirms just how thoroughly he’s being examined under a surprisingly frosty gaze. “Starting tomorrow morning,” she continues, “you are to be attached at my hip every waking hour. You go where I go, you follow where I follow, and you do as I say, when I say it, and how I say it. That’s been the job for every person who came before you, and I’ve been tossing them all out, one by one, since I was five.”

She takes an idle step forward, but the look on her face makes it seem more of a challenge than a casual movement. “I don’t do nice guys, Nimbus,” she finishes with a final arch of the eyebrows, “and nice guys always finish last around here.”

Again, there’s no chance for a rebuttal; she turns to the side and begins walking back up the stairs with a final smirk over her shoulder. “See you in the morning.”

He stands in place for a minute or two, even after he hears a door open and close upstairs—her bedroom, he’s assuming—and then leans heavily against the railing with a low sigh. Suddenly, that imaginary little toddler with bows and temper tantrums doesn’t seem half-bad.

***

He’s officially five minutes into the job, and already he has problems.

First and foremost, Araz neglected to give him proper guidelines and instructions on how, exactly, to go about this job. So, essentially, he has no idea what the rules are, but he’s quite certain that if and when he breaks one, he’ll hear about it. He’s flying blind, and he has a feeling there’s a storm coming on the horizon.

Secondly, he absolutely _hates_ this suit. He doesn’t wear dress clothes, as a self-preservation rule, but with his presence mandated at a family breakfast this morning, he began the morning with an attempt at making a good first impression. As it stands, his intentions have the lovely result of being itchy with all this starched fabric, restrained in too many layers, and after half an hour of figuring out how to even assemble the damn thing, the tie is now threatening to asphyxiate him. It’s far too warm a day for this, but Araz is almost never seen without a proper suit, in public or otherwise, and there was no talk about how, as appointed guard for Araz’s only child, he is supposed to dress, in public or otherwise.

Presently, he’s standing at what he hopes is Anastazia’s bedroom; there are too many rooms on this level of the house, and she isn’t one of those girls who adorns the door with signs and ornaments to advise curious passerby that, yes, indeed, this is the one. He’s also been standing out here for five minutes, silently debating whether or not he’s even supposed to be up here, or if it’s better to wait for her downstairs, or out in the car, or—

“Staring at my door isn’t going to make it open, Mr. Nimbus.” Her voice abruptly breaks the silence, from the other side. “That is why we have door handles.”

Taking that as an invitation— _more or less_ —he steps over the threshold and takes a moment to admire the settings. Very lavish, a large bed adorned with a white silk canopy, tall windows pouring in sunlight, tiled floors and expensive rugs, a massive closet on one side and an equally-extensive vanity on the other; this room is everything a girl, or woman, could want.

“Thank you,” Anastazia says, from where she’s perched delicately on the vanity seat, looking at him in the mirror and running a brush through her curls, “I was beginning to think you already had cold feet.”

“Don’t know that you could blame me, Ms. Darbinyan.” He says, speaking before he stops to think about what’s actually coming out of his mouth. “You gave a rather frosty first impression last night.”

Rather than look insulted or put-off, her mouth curves into a broad smile at his blunt honesty. “You can’t expect me to be nice on the first date, Mr. Nimbus.” She turns on the bench, hands combing through her curls and taming them back with pins and skilled fingers, while lifting her eyebrows with an innocent shrug. “A girl has to know she’ll be taken seriously.”

This morning, she’s truly a world apart from the _lady of the evening_ he met last night. Her hair is smoothed back in an elaborate style and fastened at the nape; her face is clean of any makeup, save for a simple pink shine on her smiling lips. The modest white heels and demure sundress, with lace trim and capped sleeves and flowing skirt, makes her look ready to serve tea and sit quietly at her father’s side, rather than sass perfect strangers and flaunt what Nature gave her.

As he’s been taking stock of her, she’s likewise been taking stock of him. Her lips purse a little, she slides off the bench with a rustle and flurry of pale pink skirts, and strolls forward with smooth steps. When she gets within five inches, he instinctively tilts backwards—there’s some rule about boundaries and personal space with her, right?—and lifts his eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

Without a word, though she’s smirking a little at the look on his face, she grips his tie, gives a couple jerks, and tosses it over her shoulder once she has it loose and unraveled. The jacket is next, with the same treatment, and then she leans back, tilts her head, and pops the top button on his shirt.

“There.” She declares, nodding satisfaction as she retrieves a purse from her dresser and straightens her bodice. “I’d prefer you not suffocate halfway through breakfast, Mr. Nimbus. It gets things off to a bad start.”

“Duly noted.” He nods, feeling a little awkward with how close she was standing, though it is a relief to have the layers stripped away and nothing around his throat threatening to choke the life out of him. It’s a little concerning, to be so dressed-down when he’s quite certain the rest of the family will be dressed to form, but when he mentions it to Anastazia, she rolls her eyes with a dismissive laugh.

“Remember,” she says, checking her reflection one last time and then returning to his side, “you belong to me, Mr. Nimbus. If I say khaki shorts and a wife-beater are appropriate dress attire, then I expect to see you in khaki shorts and a wife-beater.” Her eyes run down him once more, then she shrugs and winks at him. “But if you’re that concerned about it, allow me to say, you look very nice.”

He blinks a couple times, seriously wondering what happened to her between last night and this morning, trying to remember if she looked drunk or otherwise under the influence, and then realizes she’s lifting her eyebrow at him and looking a little put-out.

 _Oh, right._ Return the compliment, be a gentleman, and all that. He starts to open his mouth, then stops, drops a look down her figure, carefully taking in the pastel color against her skin tone and all the frills and lace accents on the dress, and realizes there’s a problem. It’s completely inappropriate, of course, because it’s not his place to be commenting on her fashion sense, but…the color looks, well, awful. Pink is not her shade.

She giggles, he has to do a double-take to make sure the sound actually came out of her mouth, but it must have because she’s got one hand over her mouth, and her shoulders are still shaking. “I know, I know,” she sighs dramatically, twirling idly in place, “I hate this dress too.”

“That’s not what…” _Yes, it was, don’t play games_ , “It’s just…you don’t look as good in pink as…as you do red.”

Anastazia giggles again, shaking her head, and then throws him for a loop when she slips her arm into his. “Not a bad start,” she murmurs, almost affectionately, “We need to work on your honesty, though. I think you can be a little more…blunt.”

He had a response, but apparently now isn’t the time. She keeps her arm linked with his and promptly drags him out the door, down the stairs, and outside to where the car is waiting. The driver makes sure they’re both inside, then closes the door and settles into his own seat and starts the car. He’s left sitting across from her, watching as she casually tosses one leg over the other and reclines back in her seat with a quiet sigh. After five minutes of silence, he decides to throw caution to the wind.

“So,” he says, tilting his head as he considers her, “you prefer blunt honesty.”

“I think you might be the first one Daddy’s thrown my way who is _capable_ of blunt honesty.” Anastazia answers, with another little wink. “The rest have been…overly cautious. Tiptoeing through life, until they happened to get lucky and earn Daddy’s favor. Or, they happened to trip and were tossed out with the morning trash.”

He has a feeling she’s not kidding about that part, and even more so that it was a very literal statement. The dry smirk on her lips only adds to his suspicion. “So now you want out with the old and in with the new.” He continues, mirroring her pose and crossing one leg over the other. “Does that make me a breath of fresh air, or a new toy to try out?”

She flashes him a broad smile, with very white teeth and pink lips. “ _There_ it is. I knew there had to be a little bit of sass under all that seriousness.”

“Well, keep it under wraps.” He shrugs, matching her smirk. “I’d hate to lose my reputation before I even have one.”

Her smile only widens. “Ah, yes,” she nods, “a cold, hardened man. No time for fun and games, just do the job and get it done and get it done right.”

“Something like that.”

For a moment, she considers him in silence, then uncrosses her legs and leans across the seat. “As I told you last night, Mr. Nimbus,” she says, tone silk smooth, “nice guys don’t last with me. But if you’re going to be a by-the-book guy, then I can promise I will make mince-meat out of you.” She leans a little closer, lips smirking and very close, one hand on his knee for balance. “You want to do your job and keep at my side, then you’ll have to learn to keep up with me.”

“Is that so?” he is determined to not fold like a house of cards, and he’s equally determined to not turn red at her closeness because he’s not thirteen years old and he won’t give her the satisfaction of knowing just how attractive she can still look, in a dress that really doesn’t suit her at all, and with the overall presentation of someone prim and proper and innocent.

“Yes,” with good grace, she slides across the way and settles into the seat beside him; her hand still is on his knee, and she looks perfectly content to leave it there for a while, “and I’ll be honest…I’m not sure if you can do it. No one else has.”

He holds her gaze, lets himself smirk, and then leans a little closer. “I’m not everyone else.”

Anastazia just returns the smirk, shrugs one shoulder, and leans back against the seat. “We’ll see about that, Nimbus.”

***

 _Breakfast with the family_ is an inappropriately-titled affair. It should, realistically, be called _mandatory family business meeting, with food provided, eventually_.

Araz has, for the last consecutive sixty minutes, continued on and on and on about the family’s business affairs. Namely a series of new shops opening downtown that need to be visited and the owners talked to about “protective measures” for their security and sense of peace, at a price; he fixes each and every one of the family with a glare and advises, in no uncertain terms, that these businesses are to be visited before their enemies can get there first. If they lose out on a single one, he adds, it will be the responsible party’s head.

For all that she looks the proper lady, Anastazia is reclining lazily in her chair, looking wholly uninterested in her father’s lectures and more intrigued with her fingernails. Twisting her wrist to and fro, eyes narrowing as she focuses on the shape of each nail, tilts her head a little, and chews on her lower lip. She looks as though she’s contemplating a very serious matter, a great philosophical question of the universe.

Then, leaning casually over in her seat, she holds out her hand into his line of vision, “Red or black?” she whispers.

He blinks, looks down between her hand and her face, and then it occurs to him just what great philosophical question she was considering. He’s hard-pressed not to smirk, just because somehow it fits her and seems so appropriate that she would be more focused on a new nail color rather than her family’s business affairs. After all, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out there’s a little bit of love lost between father and daughter in this family. Just a little bit.

“Anastazia,” Araz interrupts; she huffs quietly, rolls her eyes, and then redirects her attention to the table head, where he’s standing and glaring at her, no doubt irritated with her dwindling focus, “you will do well to not forget your meeting with the matchmaker at the end of this month. She has graciously agreed to see you, again, and you _will_ be in attendance this time.”

“Whatever you say, Daddy.” She replies, baring her teeth in a smile that looks more like a crocodile’s grin than anything.

“And you, Mr. Nimbus,” he adds with a similar expression, “will be at her side. If you have to tie her up and carry her in there over your shoulder, I expect you to do so.”

He manages a polite nod, decides to keep his face completely neutral rather than attempt a smile—or any expression at all, for that matter—when his mind is already calculating just how badly things will end if he has to tie this woman up in any respect, let alone actually carry her like a sack of potatoes. He can only hope it won’t come to that; if it does, he has a feeling he’ll be nursing several broken bones and possibly be missing an eye by the end of it.

When the meeting adjourns for breakfast, he overhears snippets of conversation from some of the others, including a younger man who addresses Araz as “Uncle”; he can, accordingly, only assume he must be Anastazia’s cousin. They talk about the meeting with the matchmaker, and he’s able to glean a few details from innocent eavesdropping. Primarily, he learns this is not her first appointment with the matchmaker, and it “must have taken an act of God and Congress” for this woman to agree to see her again. He gathers their prior appointments have not gone well, to say the least.

Anastazia doesn’t eat much; he silently wonders if that’s how she stays so thin. Not that she’s skeletal, by any means, but nevertheless…he’s convinced, if he dared, he might nearly be able to fit his hands around her waist. Very thin, but not everywhere; she has curves in the right places—the right places that would make a man stare, that is—and her legs are long with lean muscles. Like a dancer.

After the final course is served, Araz spends another hour discussing changes in the family. He mentions three names that are not present at the table, and seeing as he describes them as “no longer with us,” their absence makes sense. Kyle himself is introduced as Anastazia’s new bodyguard; that gets attention, and a few smirks around the table. It doesn’t make him uncomfortable, but it does at least reaffirm the notion that this is not exactly the highest-ranking position amongst the family.

After everything is said and done, he is sidelined by a large, clean-shaven man in a suit. The man is most definitely in his personal space, and he feels his haunches rise a bit at the dismissive little smirk he’s being given at the moment.

“I’m impressed, Rookie.” The other man rumbles, nodding to a couple of the others standing nearby. “Aren’t you, boys? He survived the car ride.”

The reminder that he needs to mind his place and not pick fights clashes immediately with his instinctual urge to knock the man’s teeth back into his skull. He’s not a child, and he doesn’t appreciate being referred to as a “rookie”. Maybe he’s new to this family, but he isn’t a teenage boy trying to worm his way into the big leagues. And he’s officially lasted longer than five minutes as her bodyguard, which, frankly, feels like a victory in and of itself.

Though, on second thought, it doesn’t quite compare to the victory of feeling Anastazia’s arm link with his and turning to find her standing very close and fixing the other man with a cold smile. “So sweet of you to congratulate him, Renold.” She croons. “It’s a true mark of humility and modest acceptance, to give credit where it’s due, even to someone who outshines you. I mean…” she gives a dry little laugh, “ _you_ didn’t even make it _into_ the car.”

The others dissolve into poorly-stifled snickers, Renold flushes dark red and rounds on them with a fierce glare, and she tugs on their linked arms and pulls him away from the crowd. Once they’ve slipped out of the restaurant, she stops, turns on her heel, and cocks her eyebrow at him.

“It looks like you and I will be establishing the rules as we go.” She sighs, as though greatly irritated—he has an unfortunate suspicion that he’s now the reason for her annoyance—and sets both hands on her hips. “So, first rule is _be blunt and brutally honest_ , because I hate tip-toers and I really hate kiss-ups. The second rule,” one hand leaves her hip and points back towards the restaurant, “is this: don’t _ever_ take crap like that. Not from the underlings. There’s nothing you or I can do if Daddy wants to shoot off his mouth, but if one of _them_ does, you either shut them up, or you rearrange their face.”

“I’ve been on the job less than twenty-four hours.” He says, obliged to take a step back because she’s inching forward and he’s still sure there is a rule about staying out of her personal space, even if she doesn’t seem to abide by it. “First rule of being a rookie: you don’t pick fights with the other kids when you’re new on the playground.”

Her smirk returns, though it’s a bit thinner and cooler than last time; her hand reaches out, curls fingers within the collar of his shirt, and pulls him back towards her, all in one fluid motion, and now there’s less than five inches between them and this is most _definitely_ a rule violation.

“When you’re in charge of defending the pretty princess,” she purrs, “those rules don’t apply.” She takes another step forward, tilting her head a little; the hand fisted in his shirt lays flat to his chest and her smirk becomes a little pout, which she wears incredibly well. “Or are you tired of me already?”

It’s a minor miracle that he doesn’t blush this time; he saves himself by biting down, hard, on his tongue and swallowing back the blood. Summoning back his composure, he shrugs, lifts an eyebrow, and replies, “Why would I be? You haven’t tired me out yet.”

The pout vanishes, and her lips part in a wicked grin with a low purr to match. “Challenge accepted, Mr. Nimbus.”


End file.
